


Everybody knows (you're high)

by Anonymous



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: 420 blaze it, Fat fetish, M/M, Omorashi, Porn, Watersports, good dirty fun, slob fetish, too stoned to get off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 09:09:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13408008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Nanu uses the wrong strain in his brownies and gets nice and wasted with Looker. They learn something about their personal kinks, have some good dirty fun, act like idiots, Nanu forgets to hate himself for an entire half hour.





	Everybody knows (you're high)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aseansensasean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aseansensasean/gifts).



> This has the lightest flavor of dubcon if that bugs you and neither of these dumbasses is in any state to go feet first into a new kink. Don't do this shit in real life. 
> 
> It all works out, though, because escapist fiction.

He's not sure how long he's been in the bathtub. It's a looping blur of rolling his cheek against the blissfully cool porcelain and being thirsty and eyeing the tub faucet and then talking himself out of it. Maybe ten minutes?

This space was just part of the outside, ten years ago, before they built on the addition. He feels as if he's slowing down so much that time will roll over and past him, and he'll be lying out in the cool rain in the sodden ferns, looking up at the sky. It's almost a surprise to open his eyes and see the bathroom ceiling, still.

If he doesn't slow down enough, he might get stuck during construction. It will smell like plaster-dust and the construction workers’ sweat. His mouth feels like there's plaster in it already. He reaches for the water bottle he'd been drinking out of, but finds it empty, resting on its side where the tub and his thigh meet. He thinks of the tub faucet.

Better not. He'd get water all over his trousers.

He's not sure why he's in the bathtub. There's a good reason, though. It's just really hard to pin it down, follow it through more than two logical steps. Well. It definitely started with the brownies. First he had three of them because Looker likes him well fed. Then he looked at the label on the shake and said ‘oh, shit’. Then…uhhh? Then bathtub.

There's noise outside of the bathroom; someone is rustling and walking around and crinkling things. It must be Looker, who's the only other person here.

"...Looker, what are you doing?"

"Cleaning, _mon chou_ , I told you that."

Right. It sounds familiar now, but for once it takes less energy to talk to another person than to consult his hazy memory.

"Why am I in the bathtub?"

"Because you were telling me a story."

Maybe that makes sense to the Interpol agent, but Nanu is in the dark.

"Why are you cleaning?"

"Because it is a mess," Looker says, frown audible in his voice. Expressive voice. Expressive face, when he's not in disguise and acting like someone smaller and less radiantly adorably dumb than he is. Or is that radiance an act too? Nanu has always wondered. Some of it must be. Some of it isn't.

"I'll get up and clean it,” he decides, because Looker should be sitting down and enjoying the high not cleaning.

"No, don't get out."

"Why not?"

Looker appears in the doorway of bathroom, eyes bright and a little bloodshot even in the dying light of a dim yellowed bulb that Nanu hasn't bothered to change. He's ditched his coat and jacket, has his shirt unbuttoned two buttons and his sleeves rolled up. His cheeks are faintly flushed.

"You might try to tell me a story again."

That's hurtful. It hurts. He doesn’t talk too much. If he does, it’s the brownies. His mouth turns all the way down. "Fuck you."

The bright-dark eyes blink, offended, and then Looker frowns. "I mean. You can tell me a story, but you must be in the tub."

"...okay." Nanu frowns. "Why are you cleaning now?"

"Because you live in a trubbish nest and I cannot stand it."

"I could clean--" he backs up a laborious step. "Nevermind, I won't get up."

"Bon," Looker praises.

"You must have a hell of a metabolism. You should be crashed on the couch by now. You had a couple brownies, right?”

"Yes. But I do not feel very different." A shrug. "I am hungry, though."

Tapu save them all. He rolls his eyes up at the ceiling, which was the sky ten years ago, so Bulu could see him even if Bulu wasn't generally aware of what he was doing at most times.

"I am thirsty. Are you.. thirsty?" Looker asks, sounding cagey. Strange. Bad liar. How did he get into Interpol. Also yes thirsty.

"Yes," he groans. Plaster dust in his mouth.

"Would you like me to bring you some water?"

"Yesssss. Please."

Looker shimmers in; Nanu doesn't know if the odd boneless bend to his movements is a real effect of the cannibinols, or just something Nanu is seeing because of them. He reaches down to Nanu's side-- hand warm, burning against his skin through his canvas trousers in comparison to the cool tub, and picks up the bottle. The sight of it, the sudden present memory of drinking out of it, seems to suck the last drops of moisture out of his mouth. He's thirsty and all he can think of is a drink, the cool slow spill of the water through his mouth, the feeling of the little eddies on his tongue, between his lips and teeth.

The warm hand strokes his forehead, a rich burst of temperature and texture. He drops his head forward against it, sighing softly.

"Look how relaxed you are."

"Yeah, well. Wrong freezer."

" _Pardon_?"

He frowns and reviews. He'd let the whole middle of that sentence drop out and Looker's not a mind reader. "Wrong - bag from the - freezer."

"Aaah. Yes. Hang Ten Kanto, not Old Familiar-?"

“Doc’s Old Familiar. Yeah. Hang Ten's..." He takes a second to decide between 'rougher stuff' and 'more intense' and by the time he remembers he has to say one of them out loud, Looker is gone and he hears water running.

He parts his cracked lips, wanting. His pelvis tenses, there’s a phantom weight pressing on his bladder and easing off.

So it's not a loop-memory that he's been drinking all evening, he really has been keeping hydrated-- but his mouth his still bitterly dry. It's not such a bad sensation, a full bladder. Not one worth getting up for.

Looker reappears like a teleport user, passing the dented plastic bottle-- heavy and full-- down to him. He drinks greedily, two big swallows and then a third that he rolls around his mouth. It's not the best tasting water-- every trace of mud and mineral is enhanced by his current state-- but it feels wonderful, slides like oil into a grinding engine and makes everything smooth.

"You tried to tell me why it had such an unusual name," Looker observes, when he's on his .. fourth or seventh mouthful, depending on how many swallows were echoed memories and how many actually happened.

"Funny story," he says, mouth turning up. It is. Bulu, it's one of his favorites. He starts to chuckle, remembering.

"Indeed. Will you tell me now?"

"Sure, it-- did I tell you about Doc? I don't think you've met Doc?”

"He gave you the drugs."

"He grows them. Not. Actually a doctor. But he says it’s medicinal, that’s the joke. Uh, he. We went to Kanto for a weekend. One of his pals wanted to go to some. Meeting? Conference? It was, uhhh..." he can't remember, casting around for the words. Something about... telescopes or ... gadgets or something, but not the big Unova convention, some other thing.

Looker hums softly, and he trips and falls into the next sentence, still chuckling because he knows how the story ends. He can feel his full stomach shaking; he can feel the need to piss lapping up against his consciousness like ocean waves. It's nice. He takes another drink.

“Doc went with this guy, they invited me, I wanted to go. Our pal did his conference. I checked in on some people I know. Doc smoked on the beach. He was trying out this new strain. This one. the one I put in the brownies. It was strong."

"Yes," Looker agrees.

"He kept being surprised that the water was cold. Two, three times he got up and went down to the surf, see if it was good to swim Came back. Every time. So surprised. 'Aue, shit's cold!'" Nanu's cheeks stretch, lips feeling like dry bark over new growth as he grins. "So I started asking him. 'How's the water, Doc. How's the water, Doc.' Went down to the water over and over. Just. kept forgetting it was cold."

He can see the look on Doc's face the fifth or sixth time he came trotting back up to earnestly inform him that 'it's freezing, for real'. A deep, raspy laugh boils out of him, and subsides. Then the memory is back again, and he's laughing again, and it's mean of him and he's just as stupid-- that's the funny part, too.

"The tub's cold. Ay yay, it's cold, brah," he laughs at himself, laughs so hard he rattles. Looker seems bemused, and he knows he's talking like a stoner, knows the story didn't come out right, and that just makes it better.

The lapping wave of need in his pelvis becomes a pounding surf as he quakes with laughter-- waves shoving at a seawall. It's starting to ache. Not a bad ache, but he feels like his whole body is heavy and swollen with water. Looker's perched on the closed toilet; when did he sit down? But as Nanu tries to assemble the right steps, the words necessary to get him on his feet and Looker off the toilet and the seat up, he sees Doc's shocked face again and curls on himself with convulsive laughter. He can barely breathe; it's just amused wheezing now.

The waves breach the seawall, just for a second-- there's a feeling of peace and then warmth, and he looks down and sees the damp patch darkening his faded black trousers, and he laughs at that too.

There's no time to talk himself out of this; relief felt too sweet and he's too mellow and humiliation seems like such a waste of energy.

Of course now that he’s given up the piss won’t come out— thinking about it too hard. He'll have to stand up and go through that whole rigamarole again, and thinking about how much work it’ll be that distracts him enough to let his body go ahead and do what it needs to. He closes his eyes and sighs, head lolling back, as the warm wet feeling blooms like flowers in the rain, spreads across his thighs and wicks down his threadbare cotton briefs so that they cling, warm and wet and stained, to his ass.

He thinks of the rain pounding down, ten years ago when there wasn't a bathroom here, just like it does today-- he can almost feel it, he can hear it as if there's no roof between him and the sky. Cold and warm, wet and weightless. The last couple pulses of piss come in waves-- he bears down to jet them out, savoring the feeling of liquid rushing out of his dick and the weightless emptiness.

He remembers Looker, and cracks a single eye.

The other man's entire face is red. His bottom lip is wet and swollen, and Nanu can still see the marks of his top teeth.

He understands, in a moment of easy clarity.

"You dirty bastard," he says, smiling with lips that feel like they had to break to be this loose and curved, smooth shards assembled into something very like a real smile. "You did that on purpose. You made me laugh.”

“I— well. It was not hard.”

He chuckles, which just goes to prove the agent’s point.

“What was the game plan?”

“You said ‘I’m going to piss myself if I laugh any harder’. I realized perhaps I wanted to see that.”

Nanu laughs at that. It makes no sense. "Old men pissing themselves, that gets you off?"

“To see a king in disgrace,” Looker mutters.

"That's not. You know that's not what Kahuna means. I mean, it's what it means, it's not what it is."

"You were untouchable. You worked in the shadows. You were 000. Now you have been chosen by a god. Look at you, helpless as a child," Looker mumbles. He jams his hands under his bony ass, lean thighs clenching together.

"Pervert," Nanu sighs happily.

"I am sorry."

"You mean you’re sorry you got caught. Nah, I don’t mind. Get me some more water while I get this wet shit off."

Looker takes the bottle he holds up, looking off balance, expression familiar from decades past when he was a junior agent expecting a dressing down. Tapu guard him from it, what a curse to have, to be so immune to a little friendly THC that you can still feel shame even after at least two brownies dosed with Kanto Hang Ten.

"Wait, it's fine," he realizes-- too late, Looker's already gone and in the kitchenette, filling the bottle. But there's no reason not to drink out of the faucet now, though. He curls up toward the tap-- he feels loose and powerful, like his body’s infinitely heavy but he can lift it infinitely easily.

The tap squeals when he paws at it. The cold water is too cold-- when he turns on the hot tap, the tepid water tastes like mud and iron and tree roots, but rolls in his mouth and it feels like bliss running over his hands and matting the legs of his trousers to his skin. He shoves his face into the filling and refilling pool in his cupped palms, swilling water down, feeling it start to soak into his undershirt in the strip that isn't protected by a water-guard uniform shirt. He dips his head further forward, and lets the lukewarm water cascade through his hair.

He hears Looker gasp, but he doesn't react to it until another second later, letting himself take another drink and another one and then remembering there was something to react to in the first place. He looks cracks one eye, blinking as his wet hair sends streamers of water down his face to clump in his lashes and blur his vision.

"Yeah?"

"Look at you," Looker moans, wiping his forehead with the hand not holding a water bottle.

"Yeah, more of a mess than usual."

"I can hardly believe it. And you are smiling, _cochon_. If you could see it. I've never seen you smile this way."

"Too stupid to be sad. I'm fucking useless like this," he says, undisturbed by the truth. "Can't take it often. Didn't mean to take it today." Old Familiar takes the edge off the gray static that still looms at the edges of his life, waiting to come in and steal the color out of it, and it's aces when his joints hurt, but anything strong enough to make him happy is strong enough to turn him into a complete idiot.

Looker doesn't care. He's muttering "how beautiful you are," or words to that effect in Kalosian.

You have to forgive Kalosians, they're just genetically absurd about their aesthetic romanticism. So he does. And he turns off the tap, because good island boys try not to waste water even if they live in the constant pissing-- ha-- rain.

"Give me a hand up. I want a shower."

Looker leaves the un-needed water bottle on the sink and holds out a hand like some old knight making a pact. This king thing-- whatever it is, if it's Looker's kink, they can do that. If Looker wants to see him make a mess of himself under the influence, it's a small enough price to pay to make the man happy.

When he gets his feet under him, even with bottom of the tub boosting him up, he's still eyes-to-chin with Looker; it's not a thing he usually thinks about, but right now he's sensitive to everything, aware of everything even if he forgets it a second later.

"How are you doing? Been drinking enough water?" he wonders innocently, and Looker frowns.

"I, I-- will use the facilities while you shower, the locker room downstairs-"

"Come on. Do you really want that?" He tips his head, and his wet hair feels incredibly heavy, but that's what Hang Ten will do to you. "Or do you not like it if it's you?"

"I don't want to piss myself," Looker frets.

"But?" he asks, waggling his hips, and the other man catches on.

Looker swears, something blasphemous about antlers. He's shivering again. The weed is doing something to him, even if it's not the soothing off-button for misery that it is for Nanu. It sounds like he's arguing himself even as he undoes his buckle and jerks down his fly.

Nanu reaches out, tugging him forward by his beltloops-- not so close that Looker’s clean pants press into Nanu's wet and soiled clothing, but close enough that the air between them goes humid and hot; he strokes the front of Looker's boxers (and then strokes them a few more times, they're smooth and captivating under sensitive fingertips) before pulling Looker's dick out. Closer-- doing his best not to get Looker wet, but he has to be close enough to check if his guess was right.

It is. As calculated, the height difference means that he can slide the tip of Looker's half-hard dick right into the waistband of his pants, under the elastic of his briefs, without much rearrangement at all. He cups Looker's balls with his hand, feels the soft crinkled skin and the smoother skin of the shaft slotting against his belly as if by design.

Looker swears again, and then leans down carefully to kiss him, pulling out a precarious inch, but still safely tucked into Nanu's pants.

"I can't."

"Just ignore it, it'll come," Nanu encourages, and sucks on his bottom lip. Not too hard. It's almost chaste. Except for the kinky shit.

He can feel the second Looker forgets that he's trying to piss and thinks only of the kiss; that's when the second wave of warm acrid liquid starts to hose down his stomach. He can smell it-- he can smell everything-- but it's not so bad considering.

The stream tapers off, and the soft, cozy bulge next to Nanu's stomach is hard and pressing into the pad of fat now.

" _Merde_. _Shit_. _Scheisse_ -" Looker pulls back, expression pained, and presses their foreheads together. "I'm too hard."

"...dumbass," Nanu says, delighted. "Of course you are. You dumb kinky bastard."

"It hurts! I really do have to piss."

All Nanu can do is giggle and drop his head against Looker's shoulder. He eases his hips back, Looker's dick sliding free of his waistband and bobbling pathetically between them, as if it's straining to be back in the warm haven of Nanu's pudge.

"Think of our old director eating a banana. That’ll soften you up."

"I can't think of anything with you like this. You reek of filth and you are smiling like an idiot, what am I to do?" Looker groans.

“Fine, you filthy fuck. I’ll shower. Think the curtain's going to hide my shame enough for you to tame those blue balls?"

A grumble, but in the affirmative.

Nanu leans up and kisses him one more time before swaying back and jerking the shower curtain closed with a couple clumsy tugs.

It’s dim and comforting with the curtain shut. In the relative privacy and the dimmer light, he wriggles out of his overshirt, dropping it into the tub--and remembering that there's only water on it, mostly, and leaning all the way down to pick it up and throw it over the shower rod. He instantly feels lighter, cooler, and suddenly getting out of his stained trousers isn't so much a burden as it is a wonderful necessity. He drops them and steps out of them, sighs at the feeling of freedom, and then again at how good it feels when he pulls off his briefs and air hits the ridged red line where the elastic dug in. He's almost sorry that his undershirt is the last thing to take off , it feels so wonderful to shed the weight and move from damp cotton to humid warm air. He hums softly and gives his gut a little smack, distracted by how far the jiggle goes when it's unrestrained. All his clothes get tight when Looker’s in the region.

"...you know, if I take enough of this stuff I start to forget how much I've eaten. Imagine what you could get up to," he says.

Looker tells him to do something rude to his ‘uretre’ -- no prizes for guessing what that word translates-- with... a wingfeather of death?

"Problem?" he asks.

"I am trying to get soft enough to piss, not hard enough to hammer nails, you -- short demon."

"I realized it'd be faster if you just jerked off."

"Yes. Well. Fine!"

He hears well-pressed trousers hit the floor, and watches Looker's distorted silhouette grip itself, and then he turns on the water again. The sound it makes gurgling up the pipe to the showerhead is unusually melodic, has tones he's never noticed. At least it's pleasant for him, who doesn't have a full bladder to deal with-- Looker moans miserably.

"I will remember this, next time, what you have done to me."

He sounds like some villainous admin monologuing. Nanu feels a new twist in his gut, and it's not his bladder. Well. Apparently he likes Looker in a vengeful mood when he's high. Does he like it when he's sober? He doesn't think he's ever heard it. Maybe it's something the agent can only channel under the dubious influence.

"I'm going to feed you until you are so fat it takes a flute to wake you. Until you can't move," Looker threatens.

He's too high to go to all the effort of getting off, but it settles warm into his guts and oh yeah. They're going to have a good time next time he can bring himself to indulge this much.

"You're such a sexy criminal mastermind."

The only response is the slap of flesh on flesh, hard enough to hear over the shower. He leans into the spray until it's just on the edge of his hearing and relaxes. The water feels amazing coursing over him. He thinks he can still hear the rain outside, too, as if the water is connecting him to this whole rainy coast. He can feel his consciousness spreading out.

There's light and cool-er (not cool) air as Looker pulls the shower curtain open and in slow liquid time Nanu lets him drag him sideways, letting himself be manhandled and repositioned so that Looker can press him close and get those silk boxers absolutely soaking while he jerks himself against Nanu's stomach and nips at Nanu's mouth. He can't feel Looker come, a few splashes lost in the streaming water, but he smells it and hears Looker's stifled grunts; he feel Looker's weight as the other man collapses across him, half in the spray.

“I can’t believe you have that much energy.”

“Not anymore. Maybe the brownies are working.”

"Might as well come in," Nanu murmurs, reaching up to unbutton his wet shirt.

"Yes, very wise," Looker pants, tangling their arms as he tries to wriggle out of his wet boxers.

They wordlessly exchange tasks; Nanu's at a better height anyway to peel the wet fabric off of his skin, Looker has better coordination for those buttons, and in the end the boxers hit the damp tile with a victorious splat, and Looker's shirt and under-shirt join Nanu's over the rail of the shower.

They lean on each other in spray of the warm water, Looker's chin on Nanu's head. Nanu licks a few drinks of water off of his sharp collarbones, and Looker hums benevolently; orgasm has chased out his bad mood. His breath hitches and comes out in a sigh, and suddenly the water streaming between their bellies is a few degrees warmer.

It feels nice. Still smells strong, he needs to make sure Looker's drinking enough water in this climate, but the almost burning heat is a pleasant counterpoint to water that's starting to run lukewarm.

"Better?"

Looker hums blissfully.

Nanu fumbles at the tap, and the water shuts off, but they stay leaning on each other and dripping for an unknowable amount of time before Nanu can summon up the energy to go find towels.

Time starts to straighten out and unknot itself somewhere between the bathroom and the janitor’s closet he turned into a laundry room. The mixed textures of his small unfolded laundry pile only distract him for a minute, tops. Looker is sitting on the table slowly drinking from that battered water bottle.

Nanu throws a towel lazily at him. It hits the floor next to him and Looker reaches down, grabs it, and swats at him with it. Misses by a mile.

They both laugh stupidly and dry off next to each other, reaching over to get each other's backs or dipping their heads at the same moment the other moves to dry their hair, the same instinctive moving-together that made them so damn good in the field, once upon a time.

"Why didn't we have this much fun when we were young?" Nanu wonders, for the first time out loud, but not for the first time.

They'd certainly thought they were hot shit, flying under the radar and ignoring the fraternization regs. He'd never thought they were vanilla, but looking back... yeah, looking back they'd never done anything more outre than some light bondage and a semi-public liason in a broom closet, and the broom closet thing had been less 'deviant' than 'almost mission-ruiningly stupid'.

"We had too much dignity," Looker says, the answer coming almost immediately-- is that because he’s still having some time dilation, or has he been wondering, too? "I would rather have died than you know that my tastes were-- like this."

"Yeah. And I had a chip up my ass."

"You mean on your shoulder, I think, yes?"

"No. Like a stick but more painful." He had dignity. Propriety. He used to have a lot to lose and a lot to prove.

He’s older now and he's run face first into his own shame and it didn't kill him, and now he can just... survive it. And piss his pants in front of a gorgeous man and probably not even hate himself much for it when he's sober. And Looker doesn't act like he's one part skarmory one part wilting virgin anymore; he's not as shy or as sharp, and you know, a little evil actually looks pretty good on him. Manipulative bastard, Nanu’s gonna blow him when he’s sober enough to keep his teeth out of the way.

He’s riding down the wave of the Hang Ten; it's easier to remember things now, easier to stand up more or less straight. He's not out of the barrel yet, though; there's still a green wall between him and the world, and he can let the heavier thoughts go, let them wash down until the tide throws them back up to bother him later.

"I have to do my laundry," he remembers, simple present-day thoughts rising up easily without the usual panic they bring. "Gotta have clean clothes if someone needs something."

"You are the island king," Looker agrees ruefully. "I'm very tired."

"Why don't we switch it up. You go lay down. I'll actually do something. Then I'll come nap with you."

" _Bonne idée._ "

He almost skates through the motions of gathering his clothes and dumping them in the machine-- completely naked, untethered from the usual human paranoia that the meowth out in the front room give a rattatta's ass what a human's ass looks like. Pokémon don't care; they don't even look twice as he heads down to the basement. Except his Persian, who gives him snooty look, but the last kid she hatched knew Spite right out of the egg, and he’s not taking shit from someone who’d fuck a dunsparce.

There's a new smell in the air when he heads up the steps, something faint and sweet, and the landscape through the dirty windows is the wrong color for this time of day. The meowth look oddly alert.

“Zeroes, when did you do dishes last?" Looker says, coming out of the kitchen. He's got a towel wrapped around his hips and he's holding a sprouted apicot pit, the stalk bursting out of it already nearly half the size of his forearm and starting to unfurl delicate little leaves.

"...I ate that berry this morning, don't look at me like that. Things just...grow here," he sighs. 'Here' meaning Alola and 'here' meaning specifically his police station when he'd had company and the company was good for him. It happens a lot when Looker's around.

"Give it here, I'll throw it out."

"Should we plant it?"

"Don't worry, it'll grow."

He takes the little sprout and opens the front door, remembering he's naked when stray drops splash up and hit him, and hucks it into the grass. It quivers visibly as its roots sink into the soil, already starting to pull itself upright. The sweet smell comes in like a hammer.

"Look at that," Looker breathes, coming to join him at the door-- he's not looking at the little shoot (already growing because of course it is), he's looking at all the bushes bursting with white blooms. They're nānū, of course, even if that’s not what was planted there originally.

"You get used to it."

"How do you get used to that? I have seen it three times, there is no pattern, it happens all hours, all seasons-“

"...it happens when I'm happy."

If he had a normally functioning brain, if he felt things like a normal human, there might be some kind of terrible ecological collapse.

Looker's expression isn't precisely disbelieving, but it is a shade too close for reverent for Nanu's liking. He wrinkles his nose.

"It just means the boss likes you." Nanu leans out a little, to say to nobody and the flowers: "And that it's a damn pervert."

There's a rattle from the desk drawer where he keeps his Z-ring when it's not on him, and there’s a sudden gust of wind that splashes the rain into the open doorway and onto both of them. Looker yelps and grabs his wrist; the water is blood-warm, hotter than nature allows for.

A laugh like thunder rolls through Nanu's head and vibrates down his arm to Looker's gripping hand. Looker stares at him.

He stares back.

Looker starts to giggle, and he does too, helplessly, and they cling to each other like a couple idiot stoners who're old enough to know better, naked in the doorway until they finally muster themselves enough to get inside and shut the door.

\---

Hala is actually in the house when the call comes through, which is a rare coincidence; he doesn't like to keep inside on a beautiful day.

"Alola," he booms into the receiver. "I am Kahuna Hala, of Melemele island, and I am at your service."

"Alola, Hala," drawls a familiar voice, a rasp with the echo of an Ula'ula accent unusually thick around the edges today.

"Hello, old friend," Hala says, smiling. It's very rare to hear the Kahuna of Ula'ula in a good mood.

"I... have made a baking mistake."

Koko spare the poor man from conflict. Yes, it sounds as if he has.

"Have you left any to share?" he teases. He doesn't require the herb to find joy the way that Nanu does, but an occasional small indulgence is pleasant. The man bakes good brownies.

"Yeah... but..."

He can hear Nanu struggling to speak in his usual curt, to-the-point way, and how the words escape him. Hala waits patiently.

"I'm really up there, Hala," Nanu sighs. It's not quite a whine, but astonishingly close, given the source. "I can't-- if anyone needs the Kahuna, can I send them your way? I can't-- it's just too nice here to do shit, and I want to lie down... I had a shower," he adds, whispering as if it’s a secret.

It's adorable. He sounds like a sleepy meowth complaining about half-imagined troubles. One wants to pet him behind the ears and let him curl up in a basket.

"Of course, old friend. Shall I stop by in a while and make sure all is well?"

"Yeah.... please. Can you tuck us in? I wasn't going to sleep all day, but you know-- the weather." Nanu starts to laugh, a low and rusty giggle.

Again, this means something to Nanu and nothing to Hala, and that's all right.

"Sleep, Nanu. And give my best to your guest." Tuck ‘us’ in and not ‘me’ means someone he trusts is there, which reassures Hala immensely.

There's a long silence, in which he can hear Nanu breathing, and the pounding rain on the police station roof-- it paints an odd picture compared to the gentle breeze and the sunlight spilling across the wooden floor, warming his feet. His contrary little counterpart on his contrary coast, wrapped up in gloom and rain and somehow fitting into it.

"It's Looker,” Nanu says suddenly, just as Hala was thinking he’d fallen asleep on the phone.

"Tell him to leave me some brownies," Hala says fondly. "Now rest easy. I'll make sure that everything is well.”

"Thank you Haaaala," Nanu says, perilously close to a sing-song.

He's so high he hasn't apologized or insulted himself once, Hala realizes. A flight between islands is a small inconvenience for these moments of peace.

"And uuuuuuuuh you should bring an umbrella," Nanu says, and then starts to giggle again. "It's pissing down rain." 

He's still chortling when he hangs up the phone with a series of bumps and fumbles. Hala simply shakes his head and sends his quiet thanks to the guardian of green and growing things. 


End file.
